


A Ghost of a Chance

by I_rememberme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_rememberme/pseuds/I_rememberme
Summary: It's been a decade snce The Final Battle at Hogwarts. Newly single, Hermione moves herself and Rose into a home of their very own. It's the fresh  start they're looking for and everything is perfect. Or it would be. There's this disembodied laugh you see...Meanwhile, George is a shadow of his former self. He hasn't laughed in years and is tormented by the memory of his dead twin.There's  little hope that they could ever feel true happiness ever again, except..except they just might. There's just the ghost of a chance....





	A Ghost of a Chance

The Ghost of a Chance

It started with a laugh. It was, thought Hermione, who was practical, not the sort of laugh which tied you to the train tracks or plotted world domination. It was a laugh which had just thought of something supremely amusing and wanted to share the mirth.  
Hermione sat up in bed and rubbed her temples wearily. She had moved into the cottage yesterday, finally freeing herself from that red headed bastard who had stolen her youth. The walls were as yet undecorated. Boxes lay piled all around her. She knew that a flick of her wand would have them unpacked in a trice, but Hermione wanted to unpack the Muggle way. If she was going to turn this place into a home, she was going to put the effort in. She smiled wryly. It was this attitude that had meant that Ron and her had not exactly been on romantic terms for more than 5 years now. In deference to Rose, they had stayed on amicable terms and now, finally, they sometimes lapsed into something which passed for a facsimile of their old friendship. But, she seethed, without him she could have spent the past decade being, oh, happy perhaps?  
And now she was finally out, in her own place, Rose sleeping peacefully in a room which, within minutes of the young witches arrival, had suddenly sprouted unicorn murals and, for some reason unbeknownst to Hermione, toadstools.  
She was free, ready to forge ahead, step into the unknown and...there it was again. Hermione sighed dramatically. Of course. Life couldn’t be straightforward, could it? There just had to be an uninvited laugh in her bedroom.  
She sat up straight, her hand shooting out for the wand which she kept in a jar on her bedside table. Only, of course, she hadn’t unpacked the jar yet. Her hand fumbled and she rolled her eyes as she realised that the object she had hastily grabbed was, in fact, a hairbrush.  
Hermione was, by now, in a rather bad mood. She glanced down at the foot of the bed where Crookshanks lay, gazing amiably, if slightly bong eyed, into the corner of the room.  
As much as she strained her eyes, she couldn’t make out anything untoward hidden in the darkened corner. She placed her hairbrush down deliberately on the bed and grabbed her wand.  
“Reveal!” she commanded.  
There was a flash, another laugh and a voice, as faint and dry as an autumn leaf. “Just you wait Hermione. We’re going to have so much fun.”  
The bloody cat, who did not, to Hermione’s mind, understand who it was who fed it, simply settled himself down once more and purred softly. 

*  
He had not slept well. That’s not to say that he hadn’t slept, just that his dreams had been....problematic. They consisted, as he might have guessed they would, with long stone corridors and a flash of a boy with hair as red as his own, his back always to him, running around corners, almost out of sight and, as always, laughing.  
Last night he had caught up with him, only to find himself confronted with a mirror, his own reflection staring back at him. “Smile” his reflection told him, icily. “They want you to smile.” And then the mirror had exploded, shards cascading over him, slicing him, burying themselves deep into his flesh.  
He had woken up sweating. His elbow hit something soft and warm and, for a minute, he was back in his nightmare, his blood was surly pooling around his prone body. That was the softness.  
But then a small voice whispered “Ouch” and George relaxed. His elbow, so far as he was aware, had never voiced any discomfort in the past and was unlikely to be starting at this time of it’s life.  
His mind drifted back to the here and now. The softness beside him was....Oh yes, he peered at the face of Maude, a saleswitch who’s name did not become her. Her face was small and delicate, her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders in beautiful, untamed waves. And she was smiling muzzily at him, in a way which totally failed to make his heart flip over.  
“Bad dream?” she whispered, reaching out an arm to stroke his chest.  
George sighed. “Nothing that cannot be fixed by waking up to you, sweet Maude.”  
She blushed and George pulled her to him and, for a time, he allowed himself to become lost in something which almost made his dreams seem inconsequential. 

*  
Hermione woke which, she supposed, must have meant that she’d finally gotten some sleep. She had lain awake for hours after she had heard that..that..guffaw, feverishly muttering incantations under her breath, determined to make the source of the noise reveal itself. Nothing had worked. Hermione was unused to anything not working for her. It put her completely out of sorts.  
Nevertheless, there was nothing in the world, not disembodied noises, not oogedy boogedies, not even the spectre of Harry’s wrath at her cancelling on his and Draco’s dinner plan’s -Hermione shuddered at the prospect of having to restrain herself from asking if they were serving ferret for an entire evening- that could come between her daughter and a bowl full of Spell-E-O’s.  
On cue, Rose burst into the room, spoon already in hand, a massive smile already plastered over her tiny face.  
Hermione groaned, smiled and heaved her way out of the covers.  
Spell-E’O’s were Hermione’s concession. They were filled with sugar but, they also had the nifty little trick of spelling out words in your cereal. They were, she reasoned, educational. And thanks to their glucose riddled nature, Rose would cheerfully sit through endless kitchen table recitals of “Oh look, honey! It says mouse!”  
Hermione was absently flicking through The Prophet, trying desperately to avoid the middle pages where, inevitably, she would see something about either her, Ron or Harry and focussed instead on the big news story about how one of the dragons at Gringotts had given birth to tiny, flying carriages. There was a helpful little cartoon which someone with about as much sense of humour as a paper doily probably thought was “satirical” It was captioned ‘Sparkes Are Flyinge’ and it had, Hermione knew, eroded just a tiny bit of her soul by merely existing.  
She absent mindedly looked up, aware that her daughter had just said something through a mouthful of breakfast carbohydrates. . “What was that, sweets?” she asked, hoping that Rose wasn’t about to start berating her for her failure to hang on the small child’s every syllable.  
“Am I seeing Grandad today? I want to see Granddad.”  
Hermione gave her a half smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Of course you are. You know he wouldn’t miss taking his favourite Rosebud to school. Speaking of which, you’d best grab your bag and coat.”  
Hermione had, of course, still carefully maintained her relationships with the Weasley’s for Rose’s sake but, she had to admit, she was grateful that Arthur would be showing up today without his fearsome wife. Although Molly would never dream of admitting it, her attitude towards Hermione had indicated a level of frostiness which the witch was unaccustomed to and which, she suspected, wasn’t likely to thaw anytime soon.  
Right on cue, the fireplace emitted a belch of green smoke from which a crop of fiery hair could just be made out and Mr Weasley emerged and stepped into the dining room.  
Hermione moved forward forward, forcing a smile and exchanged the brief pleasantries required of such an occasion.  
Arthur smiled his kind, slightly absent smile at her and then his eyes settled on Rose’s science project, carefully laid out on the coffee table where a doting and Muggle-obsessed grandfather was bound to see it.  
“Why!” he exclaimed, this is marvellous! It’s a volcano. This is that mashy paper you’ve told me about before isnt it?”  
“Paper mache” Rose corrected him, bounding into the room and flinging her arms around his legs.  
Arthur beamed at the small girl. “Incredible.”  
“It works too” Rose boasted. “Look, there’s powder in there and if you add vinegar it goes off, boom! I’ll show you.”  
“But later” Hermione quickly interjected, mindful of both the time and her carpets.”  
She kissed her daughter goodbye, reminded Arthur that shouting “Oh look! Lightswitches” in Roses classroom again would be frowned upon and promptly sent a memo through the floo network telling her department at the Ministry that she was not coming in today and she’d hex the kneecaps off of anyone who disturbed her.  
She had a mystery to solve. If she wasn’t so damn irritated by it, she’d have been thrilled at the prospect.  
*  
George looked down at his blindingly bright uniform, adjusted the bow tie and tilted his top hat to what he thought was a much more rakish angle. He sighed deeply and checked the mirror to see that his smile, however much it cost him, looked just as easy and charismatic as his customers had come to expect.  
He threw open the door of the staffroom and surveyed his shelves, each bursting with products that made everybody laugh but him.  
Business was, as it always was first thing on a morning, slightly slow. It went without saying that nobody woke up in the wee small hours, riddled with desire to buy Puking Pastilles. Nobody queued outside a joke shop. George relied on the natural whimsy of the shop to draw witches and wizards in later on, when the rampant commercialism of Diagon Alley had wearied the spirit of even the least Marxist witch or wizard. For some reason that he had never quite been able to fathom, nobody seemed to count Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes as part of the money making cog. He was, he didn’t mean to brag but the evidence spoke for itself, almost inexplicably raking it in, exploiting mirth , coining laughter. And nobody noticed. It was infuriating really. If he hadn’t sworn, in happier days, to uphold the prankster spirit till the day he died, he would sack it all in. Charlie had often remarked that they could use some extra help on the reserve and Romania probably wasn’t as full of vampires as everyone made out.... Still. The shop wasn’t just his livelihood. The shop was Fred, their dream, their joint venture. The last thing they had done as Fred and George, The Weasley Twins. And so he wore the hat.  
Maude smiled at him in what she probably thought was a subtle way but which screamed “We had sex! Everybody! I’m having so much sex! With the boss!” and hurried over to him, making up a flimsy question about Levitating Liquorice ‘Sweets that make you lighter! A Miracle at only 5 knuts!’, something which George happened to know she was very well versed in after a memorable evening after hours in which they had ended up, fully naked and upside down, hovering somewhere over the Muggle Tricks aisle.  
George smiled politely at her, his head racing with lines. She was a wonderful girl, he could say, except that girl was patronising. She was a hell of a woman. No, that sounded like a line from a terrible noir. Sorry but you’ve outgrown your usefulness was true, but probably lacked tact and, on the whole, he preferred himself when he wasn’t being stabbed through the heart by tiny, fearsome women.  
Maude, who really was far too intelligent to be wasting time peddling trinkets for a few galleons an hour, gazed at him shrewdly. “I know what you’re going to say, George, and I really think you shouldn’t. Not when I have a rather naughty surprise for you.”  
George sighed. So close. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean, sugarplum. And what surprise?”  
Maude winked. I’ll show you later. Or, perhaps, after Sunday dinner?”  
George blanched. The other Weasley’s would probably be thrilled to see a woman on his arm for once and, he reflected, his mothers hospitality was virtually limitless. However, there was the nagging part of his brain that suspected that this was one hell of a trap. Of course, it was also a trap that he seemed unlikely to get out of and, once in, he would probably be compensated both adequately and carnally.  
Trying to disguise his frantic thought process, George beamed his most ingratiating smile and said, Of course. We usually try to get there for twelve. Any earlier and Mum would only have us peeling potatoes or degnoming the garden.”  
Maude’s smile was triumphant. “Perfect. I’ll bring coleslaw.”  
*  
Hermione enjoyed her work as a rule. She had fought long and hard to establish the department for interspecies cooperation and it certainly kept her busy. Of course, her heart lay with the house elves but, until they chose to throw off the yoke of oppression, she largely dealt with either goblins or centaurs. Mind you, some days it was an indescribable luxury to simply owl in, stretch out on the sofa and contemplate a day of not personally grinding the faces of the elves into the dust as a job well done. She smiled grimly to herself as she remembered her SPEW days before shaking her head ruefully, reminding herself that she had a few hours to herself before Rose was due to return and she really out to make the most of her work free day thinking about something other than, well, work. There were bound to be some books that she hadn’t read yet. Stranger things had happened....  
Half an hour later, Hermione was curled up under a blanket, cradling a warm cup of tea, a book floating in mid air in front of her. She sighed in contentment. Wandless magic had been a bitch to learn but, she contemplated smugly, it was certainly useful.  
Revelling in the calm, she was interrupted by a low rumbling emanating from Crookshanks. Hermione stared at her cat who ignored her completely, preferring to stare instead at a perfectly empty corner. Hermione watched as the cat’s tail twitched from side to side, his pupils growing as wide as dinner plates. Suddenly, Crookshanks leapt into the corner of the room, rolled around and, with no apparent concern for the laws of physics, proceeded to feverishly rub his head against thin air. He did not topple over which, Hermione thought, albeit slightly guiltily, was a bit of a shame. It would have amused her no end.  
She sighed and grabbed her wand. “Who’s there?”  
In response Crookshanks, hitherto not a cat known for his buoyancy, floated up into the air and with a look of supreme consternation, proceeded to perform several graceless somersaults. He mewled unhappily.  
Hermione was scandalised. “You leave my cat alone” she demanded. Crookshanks dropped and sped off like a shot, coming to rest under the display cabinet, quivering indignantly.  
Hermione considered herself lucky in a perverse way. After facing down the noseless lunatic, being violently tortured and being forced to snog Ronald Weasley for the past however many years, some light feline floatation and the odd chuckle was hardly about to rattle her.  
Hands on her hips, she stared directly into the corner of the room and said, her voice ringing with clear, direct authority, “Whoever you are, you’d better show yourself immediately or I swear to Merlin I’ll make you so sorry you died.”  
Several apples floated out of the fruit bowl that she had optimistically placed on the coffee table in the vain hopes that Rose might one day choose convenience over fruit-phobia. Slowly, and then faster and then faster still they arced through the air. And as they did so, a shape started forming around them. It was like watching a human melt slowly into being. Eventually, and to Hermione’s utmost horror, a very familiar face emerged from behind the fruit, grinning broadly.  
“You really need to lighten up” said the ghost of Fred Weasley. 

*  
Dinner at The Burrow had always been somewhat of a crowded affair, even before the Weasley brood had grown and expanded. George had often asked his parents why, in the light of Ickle Wonnikins’ success, they had never thought of relocating or, at the very least, building an extension or two. Molly had glared at him every time, citing “Family home, blahbitty blah, steeped in history” as an excuse to ensure that her entire family were forced to bump elbows every time they paid her a visit.  
Today, thankfully, the weather was mild which meant that, once he and Maude arrived, he clutching a bouquet of flowers that shot glitter up the nose of anyone who tried to sniff them, her looking demure in a conservative looking skirt and blouse combo (although he had been assured, a few seconds previously that underneath she was completely and utterly void of all knickers) and clutching her tub of coleslaw as if for dear life, they did not have to brave the cramped living room and, instead, headed straight for the garden. They found Harry and Draco there already, bickering amiably as they set up a large trestle table. Harry turned around and waved energetically whilst his husband, ever reserved, simply nodded. “They’re about two feet away, Potter,” Draco drawled. “They could probably manage a civilised hello.” Harry rolled his eyes and kissed Draco on the cheek, causing him to flush and George to gaze, slightly inanely, up at the clouds. He had absolutely no trouble believing that Harry Potter, the boy who had virtually grown up with them, deserved to love whoever he damn well pleased and was happy, of course, that he was loved in return. He just wondered why he’d had to choose the anaemic looking, Slytherin out of say, literally anybody else on the planet. Maude of course, was looking awestruck.  
Draco, always alert for any signs of approval, took her hand and grazed it gently with his lips, causing Maude to flush a deep shade of crimson and Harry to bash him gently on the shoulder and scold him gently for embarrassing her. “Hi” he said, sticking his hand out to shake hers. “Please excuse Draco, he gives himself airs. I’m Harry”  
“Maude”  
Nice to meet you. I’m just battling this table here”  
“An epic battle” Draco interjected, “that no doubt someone will compose a ballad about any day now.”  
“But later I’d love to chat more, get to know how you managed to snag this one” he jerked his thumb towards George who wished that the ground would swallow him whole. He could probably do it, he thought to himself. He could apparate to the centre of the Earth and have done with it. At least he’d die warm. Of course, then he’d miss out on his mothers trifle. George decided, in this case, to choose dessert over self-destruction but it was a closer call than he’d have liked. 

The four of them chatted, amicably enough for a little while before a small, dark haired boy of about seven hurtled towards them and stopped short, gazing adoringly up at Draco. “Daddy, Nanny Molly says I can have a biscuit but only if I set the table.”  
Draco gazed down at his son gravely. “You’d best do it then. A biscuit is at stake.”  
The boy nodded, before hurtling back towards the house, screaming “Daddy said I could have a biscuit!” at the top of his lungs.  
They laughed uproariously, all except George, who was sparing with his laughter these days and Draco, who simply didn’t hold with public mirth.  
Harry shook his head ruefully. He’s running us ragged. Molly says she hasn’t had to deal with a prankster like Scorpius since...” he trailed off. “Well, in a while anyway” he finished lamely.  
George took a deep breath feeling pretty damn heroic if he did say so himself. “You mean since Fred and my good self. Of course, I like to think I was the brains of the operation.”  
There was a spattering of nervous laughter.  
“Look, mate” Harry began, sidling up to George. “I didn’t mean...”  
“Forget it” George said, shrugging. “Oh look, Hermione’s here.”  
*

Hermione enjoyed meals at the Burrow as a rule. It was crowded and noisy and, after a couple of Firewhiskeys all the flaming hair of the Weasleys melded together, giving one the illusion that you were stuck in a herd of rather sunburnt zebras.  
Even after Ron and hers relationship soured, she had steadfastly refused to stop attending, stating baldly that, because of Rose, they were all still family and she was damned if she’d estrange herself for the sake of the person who she refrained from calling ‘that ginger bastard.”  
Today, however, she was nervous. Rose was thrilled as ever, excitedly telling her about all the games she thought she could persuade Scorpius into playing. Hermione, half listening, nodded vaguely and made mmhmm noises as she checked her mouth for traces of toothpaste for what might have been the millionth time.  
From the inside of the mirror, a redheaded boy winked back at her.  
By the time Hermione and Rose arrived, the family were just about ready to sit down to eat. Hermione froze, suddenly self conscious. Ron was sitting at the far end, his face a carefully blank mask, his arm, she couldn’t help noticing, round the waist of Padma Patil. She wondered what had happened to Lavender but decided, on reflection, that she would rather not know.  
Happily, Harry, glorious Harry, shuffled merrily sideways, causing Draco to grumble at the unwelcome jostling. Clearly, she thought, rather uncharitably she knew, Draco expected any latecomers to sit in the chicken shed, catching any scraps which may be hurled from the table. Hermione was grateful that Harry knew her well enough to know how grateful she was without her having to say anything and took her place.  
Her arm grazed a light, freckly one next to her and she looked up into Georges eyes. Hermione had never before found herself stumped before but there, at a table, surrounded by people she liked and in broad, June sunshine, she realised with a sinking feeling that what to say to George was not something she had an answer for.  
*  
By the time the meal was over, everybody around the table hated Maude. Hell, even George hated her a little bit and he was planning on having copious amounts of sex with her as soon as was polite. The problem was that, although she talked almost incessantly, she very rarely said anything of value. In the end, her midlands accent, not particularly soothing to begin with, had miraculously been converted into white noise. Inconsequential until you realised that it had driven you completely batshit crazy.  
Feigning gallantry, he offered to clear the table and help with the dishes, knowing full well that Maude would never besmirch her manicure by going anywhere near the kitchen. He was not sure about the manicure, knowing full well that he did not pay her nearly enough to warrant the extortionate prices that A-mousse Buche charged (their prowess being solely and firmly based around beauty rather than the ability to pun). He was not, however, about to complain. Complaint warranted interest and, even if the most beautiful, miraculous witch alive should walk through the door at that very instant, he would be hard pressed to care about her nails.  
Sliding into the kitchen with a weary sigh he glanced up and saw Hermione, industriously scrubbing away at some mashed potato which had gotten stuck to the side of a saucepan. Reminding himself that she was from a family of Muggles, George refrained from pointing out that a Scourgify would be far more efficient and, instead took the opportunity to watch her.  
Hermione wore the same determined expression that he remembered from exams at Hogwarts. She was completely absorbed in her work, her brow furrowed slightly, her hair tucked unceremoniously behind her ears and held in place by a scarf.  
George smiled, remembering the conversations he and Fred had had about her when they were sure that Ron was nowhere within earshot. He had particularly fond memories of the early Wizard Wheezes ordering forms which they had purposefully left lying around the Gryfindor common room because, as Fred had always said but which he had never chosen to deny, Hermione looked dead sexy when she was cross.  
He felt a pang, as he always did when thinking about something which, by rights he should have been able to turn round and share with his twin. Fred would, he knew, have been on the exact same page as him with regards to Hermione and Ron’s breakup. Whilst not notorious for his brainpower, George would have thought that his younger brother retained the modicum of sense not to let the intelligent, kind, fiercely determined witch go.  
He sighed again alerting Hermione to his presence and George flushed crimson as she turned to face him, catching him, of course, in a state that was half ogle, half wistful reverie. With any luck, he hoped, Hermione would simply count it as some classic Weasley vacancy and think no more about it.  
George coughed nervously and Hermione jerked her head towards the sink beckoning him over. “You might as well help” she told him and, guilt-ridden as he was, he could think of no earthly excuse to avoid plunging his hands into the tepid, soapy and occasionally potato peeling-y water in front of him.  
They washed in silence for a while, neither of them apparently knowing what to say and then, seemingly out of nowhere, Hermione was biting her lip and telling him that he should really go back to her place. Well, what sort of idiot would he be if he refused?  
*  
Hermione stepped lightly from the fireplace, brushing the fine layer of green soot which unfortunately seemed to be unavoidable from her blouse as she did so. She was acutely aware that George was expecting her to try to seduce him and, for some reason, that seemed infinitely easier than having to start a conversation with ‘So, you know your dead brother?”  
She took a deep, steadying breath. If she looked up into Georges eyes now she knew she would falter. Worse, she would probably kiss him and that would never do. Nobody deserved to be kissed out of pity.  
“I suppose you had better come with me” she said, taking him by the hand and trying valiantly to ignore the look in his eyes. There was only so much hope and loss that she could take.  
“This is going to come as a shock” she said, kicking herself for a phrase which, whilst also patently true, was also trite as hell.  
She drew him across to the sofa and sat him down gently, careful to sit far enough away from him that he wouldn’t automatically assume that her method of seduction involved pom-pom riddled throw cushions and stray raisons.  
“A shock” George repeated. How so? His manner was mild enough although Hermione could tell that his bafflement would only last so long before he started to become defensive.  
“A shock is right.” Came a voice from the ceiling. “I apparently wouldn’t have aged well at all.”  
*

When George looked back on that afternoon, he was surprised to find that his memories were not clear. He did remember opening and shutting his mouth a few times, acutely aware of both Hermione’s anxious expression across from him on the sofa and of Fred’s head, tipped politely to the side, waiting for him to stop acting like a complete and utter berk.  
“Honestly,” Fred said, after it became apparent that this was not likely to happen anytime soon. “A man goes to school for years in a castle full of ghosts and he’s amazed when just one shows up.”  
“But why. And why now?”  
It was a legitimate question. George had spent the last decade wracked with an aching despair, a sense that nothing would ever really be alright or as it should be. If there was ever a time for Ghost-Fred to pop up, earlier might have been...better.  
Fred shrugged. “You haven’t laughed in a while.”  
George felt the springs of the sofa gently move, sensing rather than seeing Hermione stand up. For some reason he couldn’t put his finger on he didn’t want her to go. He did not, as it turned out, want to be alone with the very person he’d spent the last ten years wishing was by his side.  
He held out his hand to her and Hermione took it, interlacing her fingers with his.  
Ghost-Fred wolf whistled, causing both of them to flush, look at each other and laugh awkwardly before quickly looking everywhere but at each other. It was a nice laugh though, George decided. A good laugh. And, most importantly, she hadn’t taken her hand away.  
Fred grinned. “You both need to do that more often.”  
When neither of them looked convinced he carried on. “Come on! Life is funny! If I can see the good side, you certainly can. I mean, I have remained a devilishly handsome bastard whilst you have not,” He winked at George. “But, on the other hand, you have so many more options than I do.” Here he looked at Hermione with such a roguish expression that George found himself placing an arm protectively around her shoulders. He looked at it in surprise, and then at Hermione’s face in growing consternation as he realised that, should she decide to, she could jinx him from now unto eternity. However, she just shrugged and leaned against him slightly. It was a show of support he knew and nothing more but he appreciated it immensely anyway.  
“The thing is” Hermione said. “As much as I like you, Fred, I don’t really want you in my house. Is there anyway that George could take you, you know, away?”  
George tensed. As far as he knew, ghosts were not limited to one locale. If that were true, Fred would be in Hogwarts and not the other side of the country in this place. After all, that’s when he...ghosted. George had a strong feeling however that normal spirit rules would not apply in this case.  
“No can do, sweet Hermione.” Fred replied with an utter lack of apparent (or, George supposed, in his case transparent) concern. I’m going to be here awhile.  
Of course, I would like my brother to drop round and visit. Often. With flowers.”  
George rolled his eyes. “Whatever you’re trying to accomplish, Fredikins, it’s not going to work.”  
Fred feigned shock. “Me? The only thing I’m trying to do, brother mine, is make my people happy. I do like to see a bright, happy face.”  
And with that, he popped out of sight, shouting “Come back and visit me” as he did so.  
*

George did visit, many times. At first it was a small annoyance. Hermione had intended her house to be a space for her and Rose. A girls only stronghold where she could figure out who she was without Ron. And suddenly it seemed as though she’d swapped one Weasley for two more, a deal which she felt was pretty raw.  
At first, Georges visits were solemn affairs. Fred did most of the talking she knew, although she tried not to linger too closely out of respect. George used to leave looking surly, once stopping only to kick her coal scuttle on his way out through the fireplace.  
He had apologised in the most George-like fashion; arriving one weekend with a brand new scuttle, each coal individually and painstakingly wrapped up with a small, lurid orange bow. Hermione had laughed delightedly which had pleased Fred no end.  
They had spent the rest of the day with Rose and Fred, blowing a series of bubbles which George had invented for the girl’s entertainment. These were roughly the size of small rabbits and took endless, inventive shapes as they bobbed through the air. Sometimes a unicorn pranced across the coffee table, shaking it’s frothy main. At other times a small sunshine winked lazily at them before being pounced on unceremoniously by Crookshanks.  
By the time Rose had been put to bed, still giggling, George was sitting, looking utterly delighted on the floor by the coffee table, huddled close to Fred and explaining the mechanics of Magi-Bubbles.  
Hermione had smiled and left them to it.  
*  
She had kissed him eventually. It had been, largely at the insistence of Fred, and mostly just to shut him up but George had felt it burn on his cheek, long into the night.  
*  
“I just feel...happy with him, you know?”  
Hermione was sitting in Harry’s kitchen, listlessly stirring the teabag round and round her mug. Eventually, Draco placed his hand over hers, as much to save the beverage from any more heinous over-brewing than anything else and looked at her levelly.  
“There are those,” he said, wryly “that questioned what Potter could ever see in me. A Pureblood, Malfoy, Death Eater. A spoilt, ferret prince. He had to endure the most tedious questions. Until the day, of course that he didnt.”  
Hermione looked up. “What happened?”  
Draco’s lips curved into the merest suggestion of a smile. “He realised that he loved me of course. And that I loved him back. Everything else was a minor detail.”  
*  
They settled into a routine. George spent longer and longer at Hermione and Fred’s place until, at Hermione’s suggestion, they had set him up in a spare room. Fred was not always around. He was vague about where he went during his disappearances, opting instead to tap the side of his nose with a knowing grin. “Besides,” he added “I know when two people need their space.”  
George had learned to roll his eyes at such declarations. Occasionally, however, he would catch the suggestion of a blush colouring Hermione’s cheeks and the breath would catch in his throat.  
*

Hermione zipped up Roses coat. Today was different. The air fizzed.  
“Is Uncle George taking me to school?” Rose asked, hopefully. The girl loved spending time with George. He made her laugh, she said. It was reassuring to hear, Hermione realised. Up until then it had seemed likely that her daughters favourite uncle was the dead one.  
George had changed over the past few months. His smiles were still sparing but when they did came, they felt like they’d been earned and, in Hermione’s opinion, brightened a room far better than even the most expertly applied Lumos. He had started doing something too that he hadn’t done in years. He willingly made people laughed. Sometimes he even looked as though he enjoyed it. Sometimes, and this was better, he even joined in.  
*

They had been muddling along together for almost a year before the day it all changed. George hadn’t noticed an exact date, no lightning bolt moments had interrupted his life. He simply realised that, for the first time since Fred had died he felt... light. At some point, he had become the sort of man who whistled for no reason other than because he liked the tune. It was disgusting really. At first he had put this feeling down to his brother being back in his life albeit translucently. But lately he’d begun to suspect that Fred wasn’t the sole reason for the particular feeling in his chest. That lunch time he had pulled out a sandwich that Hermione had packed for him- with a Habanero pepper cunningly stuffed into the bun (amateur)- and realised that he was in love with her.  
George had been nervous before but, when he finally arrived home, a box of cow’remels (one sweet made you moo uncontrollably for fifteen minutes. One made you sprout horns that disappeared after a week or so. The rest were just cheap chocolate) under his arm, he was mentally booking himself tickets to Australia where, he decided, he would live with koalas and shun humanity forever.  
His preparations were cut short as he saw Hermione, curled up under a blanket with Rose, reading Babbity Rabbity for what might have been the gazillionth time. She paused and smiled at him fondly and he silently snuggled under the blanket with his two girls, feeling utter contentment as they rested their respective weights against him.  
That night, after Rose had been put to bed, he asked Hermione to sit down at the table. He needed, he said, to talk to her.  
His heart sank when she shook her head. “I know what you’re going to say, George” she said, gently, And no, I really do not want to talk about it.”  
He wondered what he’d look like in one of those cork hats.  
And then, so quickly it knocked the breath from him, Hermione had crossed the room and was kissing him, her arms flung around his neck, her body pressed tightly to his.  
“Oh thank god” George whispered.  
They broke apart to look at each other. There was so much more to say. More to discuss. What Ron might say, What Molly would most certainly say. What they would do about the rude words Fred kept leaving on the bathroom mirror. But for now....

It ended as it had begun. With a laugh that echoed through the house, brightening everything it touched.


End file.
